


Massa Carnis

by ameliacareful



Series: Massa Carnis [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slave Sam, Slow Burn, Wincest - Freeform, possible beginning of a series?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: Dean Winchester had three things from his father.  The first one was a car.  An old Impala that got 20 miles to the gallon, highway.  It was an outright gift on his sixteenth birthday because John had decided to get himself a truck and give the car to his son.  The second was a leather jacket that was too broad in the shoulders (and Dean was not a small man—he was 6’1” in his stocking feet).  The third was a slave.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

            Dean Winchester had three things from his father.  The first one was a car.  An old Impala that got 20 miles to the gallon, highway.  It was an outright gift on his sixteenth birthday because John had decided to get himself a truck and give the car to his son.  The second was a leather jacket that was too broad in the shoulders (and Dean was not a small man—he was 6’1” in his stocking feet).  The third was a slave.

            “My dad owns you?” Dean said.

            “Yessir.”  The slave was taller than Dean and finding him in his dad’s hotel room had been unexpected.  Dean had opened the door and the guy was sleeping on the floor next to the bed.

            “What did he tell you?” Dean asked.  

            The slave kept his eyes lowered.  “He said to wait here, sir.”

            “Until?”

            “He didn't say, sir.”

            Dean didn't like slaves.  He didn't like slaves, or dogs, or goldfish.  Hell, he didn't like fucking houseplants.  Slaves were expensive to buy and even more expensive to maintain.  There was training and shit.  At least this one wasn't a child.  

            The slave was dressed in gray cotton pants and a cheap t-shirt and Walmart Converse.  His hair was kind of long. 

            “Did he use you for hunting?” Dean asked.

            “No sir.”

            The hotel room was paid for another week.  It was a dark cave of knotty pine paneling.  There were documents and copies of newspaper articles and notes tacked to one wall; something about the Bell Witch, some people being burned alive, a drawing of a skeletal person blowing a horn at frightened people with "MORTIS DANSE" written on it, a note that says "Woman in White" above a printout of the _Jericho Herald_ article on CONSTANCE's suicide. Evidence of the hunt John had texted Dean to finish.

            “What did he do with you?”

            “He didn't do anything, sir.  He won me in a poker game.  He was here for two days and then left, sir.”

            “How long ago was that?”

            The big slave hesitated.  “Nine days, I think, sir?” He never raised his eyes from his worn shoes. 

            John probably had no idea what to do with him.  He was easily worth $50k but to sell a slave legally required titles and paperwork.  “Where’s your title?”

            “I believe it is on the desk, sir.”

            ‘I believe.’  Like the slave didn't know exactly where it was.  Slaves lied.  Slaves stole.  Making people into slaves did them no favors.  Dean rooted around on the desk and found the turquoise title paper.  It had an eleven digit stock ID and a barcode that would be identical to the one on the back of the slave’s left hand.  It had a chip like a credit card chip embedded that recorded a unique DNA signature.  It said that the slave was born 22 years before and that he was certified healthy and updated on all vaccinations as of the age of 18.  It had signatures transferring it to John on the back.

            It had several certifications of training on it but Dean didn't really follow that shit so he couldn’t tell what that alphabet soup stood for.  “Just…sit there while I figure out what he was doing.”

            The big guy folded obediently onto the floor, cross-legged.  He folded his big hands into his lap.

            Dean studied the wall of notes.  John had concluded it was a woman in white; pretty much the same thing Dean had figured.  He had no idea why John had left in the middle of the hunt—some lead on the yellow eyed demon, probably.  He stepped outside and called—no answer so he left a message.  “Dad, I'm in California to pick up the woman in white.  What do you want me to do with the slave?”

            He really didn't want to deal with this.

            Back inside he asked again.  “Did my dad say anything about what he'd found here?”

            “No sir.”

            “Do you know anything about accidents on the highway?”

            “No sir.”

            “Did you live here?”

            “Yessir.  On and off, this last year.”

            “And you never heard anything about people getting in car accidents out on Centennial Highway.”

            “No sir.”

            Dean shook his head.  “I'm going to get some stuff out of my car—“

            The slave rose in one fluid motion, and Dean started to say to just wait, he had it, when the guy staggered and put his hand out like he was reaching for something to steady himself—even though the wall was a good four feet from his fingers—and passed out.

 

#

 

            It turned out that John hadn't bothered to leave much in the way of food.  

            “When was the last time you ate?” Dean asked.

            “Six days ago,” the slave admitted.  He’d clunked his head falling and been out for a couple of minutes.  This was why hunters shouldn't own slaves, Dean thought.  

            “You didn't go raid a dumpster?  Anything?”  Dean was pretty sure the guy was stupid as dirt.

            “I didn't have a pass, sir,” the slave said.

            Well, that made sense.  No owner around, no pass to be on his own, someone could call him in.”

            “When your father said to wait I thought he'd be back,” the slave said.  John had left a box of Saltines and some American cheese singles but that had been gone almost a week.

            “Okay,” Dean said.  “Let's get something in you.”  He grabbed the slave’s arm and helped him to his feet.  The big slave swayed a moment and Dean waited until he was steady before heading for the car.  The slave got in the back seat, passenger-side and scrunched into the footwell.  He didn't really fit.  

            Dean had seen people with slaves, of course, but he wasn't sure if all restaurants allowed them.  “You know a place where we can eat?”

            “What kind of food do you like, sir.”  The slave sounded a little out of it.

            “Some place that does burgers.  Not too expensive.”

            “Your father had food from Biggerson’s.”

            “Can you go inside?”

            “Yessir.  I'm certified as service stock and licensed for hospitality in California.  Or I can wait in the car.”

            Dean didn't know about the certification crap but he didn't want to leave a slave in his baby.  At Biggerson’s he hauled the guy out of the back and let him lean against the Impala until he could stand, then dragged him in.  He started to get a booth but a server stopped him.  “Sorry, you can't have a slave in the aisle, you’ll either have to use a table or take one of the back booths.”  She smiled at the slave.  “Hi Sam!  You got a new master?”

            “Yes ma’am.”

            “I wondered when I saw Walt without you!”  She was thirtyish and had blond hair and comfortable hips.  On another night Dean would have been interested.

            “Yes ma’am.”  Sam kept his eyes on the floor but Dean saw dimples.

            “Sam here is a good boy,” she said to Dean.  “Aren't you,” she said to Sam.

            Dean took a booth in the back and Sam sat down on the floor.  The server—Caitlyn, according to her name tag, brought a menu and a cushion for Sam.  

            “He can eat here, right?” Dean asked.

            “Out here?” she said startled.

            “Yeah, I just got him and he hasn't had anything to eat in a week,” Dean said.  “I really need him fed.”

            “He— no, I'm sorry.  Slaves can't eat in the dining room,” she said, her voice lowered almost to a whisper.  “But Sam has always been a sweetheart.  I could probably take him in back where our slaves are and feed him.”

            “Yeah, good.  Um, what kind of soup have you got?”

            “We’ve got a good chicken noodle.  Or we could feed him some oatmeal.”

            “Yeah, give him some of both, and give us some to go, okay?  And I'll have the Bacon Buster with fries and a beer.”

            “Sounds good.  C’mon big boy,” she said to Sam.  “Let's get you fed.” 

            Dean steadied him, holding his arm, then watched him follow the woman back to the kitchen.  What a pain in the ass.  Dean decided to pick up a 12 pack on the way back to the hotel.

            He was contemplating pie when the slave came back clutching a take out bag and the cushion.  He sat down by Dean again.

            “Better?” Dean asked.

            “Yessir.”

            “Stayin’ down?”

            “Yessir, I was careful not to eat too much.”

            “Not your first rodeo,” Dean said.

            “No sir.”

            It felt weird ordering pie with the slave sitting there.  Dean almost didn't.  He wasn't exactly an anti-slavery guy but he didn't believe in it, either.  On a whim he ordered two pieces to go and then realized it probably wouldn't be good to feed it to someone who hadn't eaten in almost a week.  Fuck it, Dean liked pie for breakfast.

            He stopped at a 7-11 and bought a 12 pack of beer, leaving the slave in the car.  Back at the hotel, the slave picked it up out of the front seat and followed him in.  He got a glass from the bathroom.  “Would you like me to pour one for you sir?”

            “I don’t need a glass,” Dean said meaning he really could get his own beer.

            “Yessir,” the slave said. He opened the bottle and put it on the bedside table then sat down on the floor, hands folded, eyes down.  Dean realized he had never really seen the guy’s face.  The kid had face-planted when he fainted.

            “Hey, look at me,” Dean said.

            The kid lifted his face.  “Yessir?”  He was good looking but had a bruise forming from where he’d hit the floor.  His eyes were gray in the light, lighter than the bruise.

            Dean got the ice bucket and brought back some ice.  He wrapped it in a hand towel and handed it to the kid.  “You’ve got a bump there.  I'd give you some ibuprofen but I'm worried it’ll make you sick.”

            “I'm okay, sir.”

            “Your name is Sam?” Dean didn’t cringe at the name, not anymore. But he didn’t like it, either.

            “Yessir.”

            He thought briefly of changing the slave’s name but it felt at the moment like more effort than it was worth. “Okay, Sam, get some sleep if you want.  Watch TV if you want.  You can use the other bed.”

            “Yessir.”  Sam sat down on the edge of the other bed.  Perched.  Holding the towel wrapped around the bag of ice to his forehead.

            Dean sighed and took a big swig of his beer.  It was awkward as fuck.  Grimly he switched on the TV.  Tomorrow he was going to have to figure out what to do with the guy.  Sell him, probably.

            He’d find somebody decent.

 

#

 

            Sam wasn't sure what the bed was about.  He’d slept in a bed before but it didn't seem like Dean wanted to fuck him.  His stomach was unsettled and he hoped the guy didn't want sex because he was afraid a blow job would make him sick.  Dean was so weird.  Asking if he could eat in the dining room like this was some sort of club people brought slaves.  It was a goddamn family restaurant.  Caitlyn the server had shaken her head and muttered, “Was he raised in a barn?”

            Then the kitchen slaves had side-eyed him the entire time.  He was on their turf and he was eating free people food.  He sat on a milk crate by the walk-in with his styrofoam container and ignored them. The soup was great.  Salty with chunks of chicken in it.  He’d eaten mostly broth because he was afraid of getting sick but Caitlyn had put the rest in a to go container.  Dean bought it so it was going with them along with oatmeal and another thing of soup and pie.

            “Is the oatmeal for you or for him?” She’d asked when she was preparing the serving to go.

            “I don't know,” Sam lied.  He was pretty sure it was for him but if it was possibly for a free person—yes, she had put raisins and a carton of milk and a little salad dressing sized container of brown sugar.  Dean was so clueless he might not pay any attention if Sam used the milk and sugar, or might not care.  

            He was pretty sure Caitlyn knew he was taking advantage of Dean’s ignorance but she’d always been nice.  All she said was, “You be good, Sam.”  Dean would figure it out eventually and then Sam would go back to eating Purina Stock Chow if he was lucky, or leftovers and bread if Dean was like Walt.

            Now he had something in his shrunken stomach and he felt full and sleepy.  He watched the movie to stay awake and when Dean’s beer was almost empty he got him another.

            Dean was hard.  Dean’s father had been scary.  They were playing poker at Walt’s place and Sam was bringing snacks and pouring bourbon.  There were five people playing.  Walt, Roy (who was an idiot and couldn't play to save his life) and these three other guys, including Dean’s dad.  Dean’s dad said, “Who’s the boy?”

            Walt grinned and said, “Funny story, that.”

            “What,” said an older hunter in a greasy ball cap, “You won the lottery and bought a slave?” He made it sound like buying an island or something.

            “I was in New Orleans, me and Roy, and there was this place.  You know the kind I mean.  Gave massages and rented out slaves.  They had a kind of supernatural infestation.  Roy and me took care of it for them.”

            Sam had pretended to be deaf to the fact they were talking about him.

            The parlor was a grimy place that catered to tourists.  Sam had certified for hospitality but then been a service slave—certified just like a service dog—for a guy who Parkinson’s.  When Sam started getting headaches and his owner didn't want to deal he got sold to the guy who owned the massage parlor.  Then he started seeing things when he got his headaches.  He saw a fire start in the basement.  Lily was locked up in the space they all called the crate—Sam thought she was probably a little crazy and whoever thought she'd be good in hospitality was an idiot.  They kept having her do massages and happy endings and she kept screwing it up and pissing off customers because she hated being touched.  If they let her do all the touching she was okay, she’d hum and work which was okay with a Bourbon St. drunk.  Some people were creeped out by the humming but worse was when she got tired, she got upset if someone grabbed her tits.  She shrieked.  

            Sam didn't particularly like Lily.  You couldn't exactly work with her and she'd stolen his weed.  But when the headache and nosebleed hit while he was with a john, and he'd been convinced there really was a fire and he knew that Lily was locked in the crate, he had to do something so he’d staggered downstairs (mostly naked) and into the dark storage room saying, ‘It's on fire,’ over and over and it was.

            It was a ghost starting the fires.  Again and again.  Headache after headache.  He might go two or three weeks, and then there might be two in one night.  The owner thought he was cursed and brought in a cunning man but the man said it wasn't Sam, and they were lucky they hadn't burned to the ground.

            Walt said, “They called us and we went and it was a ghost, all right.  But we couldn't find nothing.  No idea of a body.  Not a goddamn thing.  Then Spooky here gets a nosebleed and tells us to check the coal chute.  Nobody even knows there was a coal chute but we break through the wall and we find, get this, an old necklace of human teeth.”

            Sam sat cross-legged on the dirty linoleum, hands folded in his lap, and pretended he was a piece of furniture.

            “We took care of the teeth, burned ‘em, and the fires stopped.  But they was about fed up with Spooky Sam, weren’t they boy.”

            “Yessir,” Sam said.

            “So they gave ‘im to me.”

            John’s eyes had glittered above his cards.

            “The rest of the night he baited Walt, subtle.  Telling funny stories about Walt’s fuck ups and the time John had to bail them out in Minnesota because they had never heard of a vetula.  He acted like it was all good fun so Walt couldn't call him on it but it was like needles.  Sam kept the glasses filled, especially Walt’s.  Walt got red and clenched his jaw, and the other guys were snickering.  Then Walt started winning against John.

            John didn't seem perturbed.  He pushed bills back to Walt, smiling.

            Sam couldn't see if John was cheating or losing on purpose but Sam didn't really know much about cards.

            “I tell you what,” John said.  “Winner take all.  I'll put my truck against the boy.”

            Walt was drunk, and Sam had enjoyed getting him there but now, looking at John, he knew he'd made a mistake.  Sam hated Walt; he was a blow hard and he was dumb and Sam despised stupidity.  He didn't feed regularly, fed scraps, and even though he stole from the kitchen, Sam was always hungry.  But it was better than turning tricks for a cheap bastard who stinted on condoms.

            Walt was better than some kinds of owners.  Sam didn't know but John seemed like he could be that not better kind of owner.

            John had a darkness to him that scared Sam.

            Five minutes later Walt was swearing and signing Sam’s title over to John.

 

#

 

            Sam sat on the floor eating oatmeal like it was the best fucking thing on the planet, slow spoonfuls, savored, and Dean felt a like he was watching something a little too personal so he turned and looked through his dad’s notes.

            That was when he saw his dad’s journal.  It has mostly hidden under a newspaper.

            Something went tight and terrified in his chest.  His first thought was that his dad had to be dead.  John’s journal.  The journal was something he couldn't imagine him just leaving.  His dad didn't take it with him on actual hunts but he wouldn't pack his clothes and his guns and leave his journal.  

            The idea of his dad being gone was…in one way he couldn't even wrap his head around it.  His dad was immutable.  Like the sun.  In another way it was a reminder that he'd been carrying this fear, this certainty that his dad was going to die, since he was a boy.

            Yeah, he’d been hunting alone for awhile but John had always been out there.  He’d been alone but not Alone.

            “Did you read this!” he snapped.

            The kid froze.

            “Did you take this from my dad!”  Dean knew it wasn’t sensible.

            “No sir,” Sam said, dropping his eyes.  “It’s illegal to teach a slave to read.”

            Fuck.

            “What did he say, when he left!”

            “He said, ‘Wait here’.”

            Great.  “What else did he say!”

            “The first day I was here he said, ‘Don't touch anything.’  Those were the only two things he said to me besides ‘Get in the truck’ the night he won the…won me.”

            “Tell me anything you can remember.”

            “He talked on the phone a bunch of times.  He always went outside when it rang.  He never touched me.”

            Dean frowned at him.  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  “What, like hit you?”

            Sam said to the bowl of oatmeal, “He never, uh, hit me.  Sir.”

            Meaning that Walt had.  Or someone.  Dean didn't have a great opinion of Walt, agreeing with his dad that it was all but supernatural that Walt and Roy hadn't gotten themselves killed already.

            His dad was missing.  The last person to see him was a slave.  John had sent him a voicemail with EVP of a woman saying, “Take me home” and disappeared into the world.

            “FUCK!” The slave flinched and Dean felt a little bad but son of a bitch he felt backed into a corner!  He couldn't think of anything to do but work the hunt and hope John contacted him.  “You know where the library is?”

            “Yessir.”

            “Finish your oatmeal and we’ll go there.”

            Having a slave trailing him through the library drew a lot of attention to him. He decided they were going to have to get some regular clothes for the guy until he figured out what to do with him. He plunked down and searched for murders on Centennial Highway.

            Sam watched him type and then watched the newspapers flash by on the screen. It was a little disturbing. Dean made twice as many typos when someone was watching him type. He reminded himself that Sam was illiterate.

            “Can you read anything?” Dean asked.

            “It’s illegal to teach slaves to read, sir.”

            “Yeah, you said. I’m not asking if you can read _War and Peace_.”

            “I recognize ‘Stop’ on stop signs. I can read all the letters. Sir.” Sam was uncomfortable, eyes back on his hands.

            “Look,” Dean said. “I don’t care if someone taught you quantum physics or something you weren’t supposed to know. Just trying to figure out where we stand.”

            “I don’t know quantum physics,” Sam said and Dean was about to send him to sit in the car, when he caught the hint of a smile. Sam still had his eyes down but the smile suggested a crack in the slave’s armor.

            “But you might know a little about reading,” Dean said.

            “Yessir.”

            That would be good if he had to send the kid somewhere.

            “I didn’t really like _War and Peace_ ,” Sam said quietly. “Too many Russian nicknames, for one thing.”

            “Wait,” Dean said. “You’ve read…”

            Sam didn’t look up and Dean had a sense of him shrinking away. Right. The kid had just admitted he could read and slaves weren’t supposed to be able to read. Dean was curious to find out how he’d learned but he’d done a fair number of witness interviews. He pretended that Sam admitting literacy was just part of the case.

            “Okay,” Dean said, “so I’m hunting for a ghost. I assume you know about hunting.”

            “Yessir. Walt is a hunter. So is your father. You hunt ghosts.” Sam said it quietly. Which meant that Sam knew something about him that was as iffy as him knowing Sam knew how to read. A quid pro quo? If so, why?

            “I’m looking for a death out on the Centennial Highway,” Dean said. “As you can see, I’m not coming up with much.”

            Sam’s eyes flicked up at the screen. “A death? Not necessarily a murder? What about a suicide?”

            Dean typed in ‘suicide’ and ‘Centennial Highway’. That’s how they found the name ‘Constance Welch’.

 

#

 

            “Is it okay to buy you clothes at a thrift store?” Dean asked. They had just gotten in the car. Sam was in the back trying to scrunch into the footwell. He had to turn sideways and hold onto the seat back. “Sit on the back seat, why don’t you.”

            “You can buy anything you want, sir,” Sam said. He sat gingerly on the back seat.

            “No, I mean, can I take you to a thrift store and have you try on jeans because damned if I have any idea what your inseam is.”

            “Oh,” Sam said. “Yeah, you can do that, sir. They have a changing room for slaves at the thrift store.”

            “Could you quit calling me ‘sir’?”

            “Yessir. But…”

            “But what?” Dean asked. Holy Mother of God owning a slave was complicated.

            “People might be offended if I don’t. Like at Biggerson’s and at the thrift store.”

            “Oh. Like people get mouthy?”

            “Yessir. Some people. The kind of people who like to tell other people how to raise their kids.”

            Dean couldn’t help smirking. “You’re funny, kiddo.”

            “Sorry, sir.”

            Dean was pretty sure that ‘sorry’ was meant to be ironic. “Don’t say ‘sir’ when we’re in the car. Or in the motel room. It makes me feel like I’m your dad.”

            “Yess— Um, okay.”

            “How did you end up a slave?”

            “I don’t know, sir— I don’t know. I saw an intake form once that said I was six months. So, you know, through the foster system or something.”

            That could have been Dean. Not at six months; his mother was still alive then and they had a pretty normal home life. But then she and the baby had died in the fire and his dad had started hunting. There had been brushes with foster care on and off but he’d only spent real time in the system when he was at Sonny’s and he knew most foster care wasn’t like that. They treated temporary foster care differently, right? He wouldn’t have ended up a slave because John would get him back.

            He was probably at more risk now—he’d committed a lot of felonies in his time and if he got caught three times, the third strike rule said he could be sentenced to slavery and work on an industrial farm or factory or something. He was pretty sure he could escape but getting rid of the tattoo would be a hassle.

            Dressing Sam hit his supply of cash pretty hard. He found a couple of pairs of jeans long enough, a belt to hold them up. T-shirts, including a purple dog t-shirt that was an unholy eyesore but that the slave seemed to like. A giant pair of converse and a brown hoody.

            Then he went through a drive through. “What do you want?”

            “Anything is fine,” Sam said from the back seat.

            “It’s fast food, it’s cheap. What do you want?”

            “Um…the chicken sandwich? Although the hamburger is fine, it’s only a dollar.”

            Jesus. He ordered the guy the fried chicken sandwich with fries and a coke, and added a chocolate shake. He handed the drink back to Sam.

            When he glanced in the mirror Sam was holding it.

            “Go ahead, you can drink it,” Dean said. “You don’t have to wait permission for shit like that.”

            “It’s for me?” Sam said.

            “I handed it to you,” Dean said.

            “Sorry, sir, I thought you didn’t want it to spill.”

            He glanced in the mirror to see Sam take a tentative sip. The guy’s nose wrinkled like it tasted odd.

            “Is it okay?” Dean took a sip of his. Sometimes the machine was almost out of syrup or something and they could taste like ass but his tasted fine.

            “Yessir. This is a Coke, right?”

            “Yeah?” Dean said. Maybe the kid liked Pepsi? Then it dawned on him. “You’ve never had a Coke?”

            “Nossir—I mean, no. I’ve tasted beer, though. And wine. And once in while we’d get this powdered fruit stuff.”

            “Kool-Aid?”

            “Maybe.”

            “How do you like your Coke?” Dean flicked his eyes up to the review mirror.

            Sam tasted it again. “It’s good, thank you.”

            That wasn’t what Sam’s face was saying.

            “Come on, fess up,” Dean said.

            “It’s not what I expected,” Sam admitted.

            “What did you expect? Rainbows?”

            “I don’t know. I’ve seen commercials for it and in the commercials it’s like it tastes incredible. I know when people drink it in real life, they like it, it’s just—”

            “Dude,” Dean said, “I’ve drank gallons of the stuff. I mean, lakes of it. I’ve drank so much of it I don’t think I can even tell you what it tastes like.”

            “It’s really sweet and it tastes a little like cough syrup,” Sam said quietly. Then added, “But it’s really good!”

            Dean wasn’t buying that it was really good but when he flicked his eyes to the mirror, Sam was sipping it gingerly through the straw.

            At the hotel, he handed the slave his sandwich and his fries and his shake.

            Sam looked anxious.

            “What?” Dean said.

            “I don’t think I’m supposed to eat this,” Sam said quietly. “You know you can save a lot of money if you just get stock chow.”

            “Stock chow?” Dean said.

            “At the last place we got Purina. But there are a bunch of brands.”

            “Like dog food?” Dean asked.

            Sam looked at him as if he had asked the question in Sanskrit or something.

            “Eat your lunch,” Dean snapped. “Tonight we’ll check out the bridge.”

 

#

 

            Coke was nothing like Sam had had ever drank. Dean was right, he’d kind of expected unicorns and rainbows but it was a weird mix of flavors and fizzy. The more he drank it, the more he liked it but he wasn’t sure he really _liked_ it.

            The chicken sandwich and the fries were honestly one of the top ten meals he had ever had. The milk shake was…who the fuck thought of this? There were people who had this every day if they wanted. He tried not to show how wonderful it was. Why didn’t Dean have one? Why didn’t every free person on the planet have one six times a day, seven times a week?

            He’d had sandwiches with his old owner, the one with Parkinson’s. Ham and cheese on white bread with mustard. Once in awhile Tom would just hand him a sandwich, especially when the dementia started taking over. But he never told anyone. He had thought ham and cheese was great but now, this meal was—it was warm and French fries were the best use of potatoes on the planet. He’d had cold French fries out of the trash at Walt’s but warm, they were a whole different animal.

            Dean was the second owner he’d had with no real experience with slaves (Walt had been the first). He figured Dean would get it all straight soon enough and then everything would be back to normal. No more fancy meals.

            He was pretty sure Dean wanted to sell him.

            He tried not to think about it. He hoped his certification as service stock would save him. He didn’t want to end up in a factory or on a farm, working with convicts turned slaves. He was really too tall for hospitality. Men tended to be uncomfortable with sex workers who were too tall, too big. He’d been fine when he was fourteen but now, although there were a few people who got off on someone like him, most guys wanted someone that felt more manageable. Felt as if it wasn’t big enough to turn the tables.

            On the other hand, waiting for the other shoe to drop made him anxious. Dean kept dicking around, acting uncomfortable with him but then buying him food and clothes. It felt like any moment it was all going to go catastrophically wrong. Dean got angry and even if he hadn’t directed it at Sam didn’t mean he never would. When he found his father’s notebook, for example.

            It was hard to figure out how to act with Dean. Hard to figure out what Dean wanted.

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

            Dean wanted to know what it took to get a pass so Sam could go out on his own. Sam told him they’d have to go to the local courthouse so that’s where they went. The window for Stock was next to a couple of windows for people paying parking tickets. There weren’t many people in line for it; Jericho was not a town with a lot of slaves.

            Sam presented his hand to be scanned and studied his shoes while Dean handed the clerk the title transfer. When the clerk wanted to know where John was, Sam said quietly, “I work for father and son. It’s a family business.”

            The clerk looked at Dean. “Yeah,” Dean said. “My dad just bought him. I’m still figuring everything out.”

            She sniffed but took Sam’s photo and printed out the pass. It looked like a driver’s license except it was turquoise. “Give it to him when you want him to be on his own. Anyone can demand it at any time and call the contact number to verify that the slave is doing owner approved tasks.” She looked Sam up and down and her expression suggested she didn’t think he should be on his own. “Is he chipped?”

            Dean didn’t understand.

            “Yes ma’am,” Sam said.

            “Good. Don’t let him wander off much,” she said.

            Outside Dean said, “Chipped?”

            Sam nodded. “Microchip.” He touched the back of his neck, under his hair. “They can check it out with an RF reader. Like they have at animal shelters.”

            “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Dean muttered.

            Shame flooded Sam.

 

#

 

            Dean was wondering how much more screwed up things could get. Winchester luck, of course. He found out. He headed out late that afternoon to get more fast food—kind of anticipating the look on Sam’s face when he tried a vanilla shake—and almost ran straight into the arms of the cops. He barely managed to call Sam and tell him to get out, go out the bathroom window, and work the case, _find dad,_ before he was chest down on the hood of a cruiser, wisecracking to the local PD.

            He’s pretty sure Sam is next. He wonders if they’ll hold him for John to pick up or if they’ll just declare him stolen property or something and he feels vaguely ashamed for not taking better care of things.

            Two PD officers go inside the room and come back out fifteen minutes later shaking their heads. Dean’s already sitting in the backseat of a patrol car with his hands cuffed behind him.

            “What?” asks the officer standing by the car.

            “Bug fuck crazy man,” says another officer. “Shit tacked up all over the walls about devils and ghosts.” He holds up John’s journal. “This is full of that stuff.”

            They haul him back to the courthouse where he got Sam’s pass. Apparently Sam did go out the back window. Hopefully he’s got a head start on finding dad. Maybe he’ll run. Dean would. Part of him hopes the kid heads for Canada or something.

            He gets booked. Fingerprints (which are already on record for Dean Winchester but it will take hours for that info to come back.) Holding cell with a drunk guy who is sleeping rough and who smells like sweat and piss. Luckily the drunk guy sleeps on the floor under the bunk for the couple of hours that Dean is there.

            It’s a small outfit, just a holding cell and a couple of deputies. He finally gets interviewed by the sheriff.

            “I made the big time, huh,” Dean says. “Interviewed by the head honcho.”

            The sheriff just looks tired. “So you want to give us your real name?”

            “I told you, it's Nugent. Ted Nugent.” Dean grins. The guy is slow and not used to much crime.

            The sheriff does the threatening stare which is nothing compared to John Winchester’s threatening stare. “I'm not sure you realize just how much trouble you're in here,” the sheriff says.

            “We talkin', like, misdemeanor kind of trouble or, uh,” Dean smirks, “squeal like a pig trouble?”

            “You got the faces of ten missing persons taped to your wall.”

            Okay. So they want to link him with a crime. Not good. Totally not good because even if it’s absurd it can tie him up for months.

            The sheriff adds, “Along with a whole lot of Satanic mumbo-jumbo. Boy, you are officially a suspect.”

            Dean hates stupid people. “That makes sense,” he points out, “Because when the first one went missing in '82 I was three.”

            The sheriff says that they know he’s got accomplices including an older guy, implying what? That John is some sort of killer and he’s some deranged kid following his crazy dad around murdering people?

            It’s royally fucked. Then the sheriff tosses John’s journal onto the desk between them. On the first blank page is ‘DEAN – 35-111’.

            Dean figures he’s going to be sitting there for a long time.

            He’s right. He tells them it’s his old high school locker number without bothering to mention he went to five high schools before he dropped out. The sheriff has the patience of a stone, just keeps asking again and again. Sometimes he pages through the journal and pauses at a newspaper clipping or a drawing of a black eyes.

            Dean thinks he will go crazy if he loses John’s journal. The 35-111 proves it, John left it for him to find. 35-111 are coordinates. He knows it. His dad is there and expects him to show up with, Dean is pretty sure, the journal. The information in that journal is irreplaceable.

            A deputy leans in the door. “Sheriff? We just got a 911, shots fired over at Whiteford Road.”

            The sheriff looks at Dean, “You have to go to the bathroom?”

            “No,” Dean says.

            “Good.”

            The sheriff gets up and starts getting his stuff and it dawns on Dean _that the guy is going to leave him sitting here_ cuffed. Because handcuffs are enough. The sheriff probably figures that by the time he gets back Dean will be hungry and thirsty and need a bathroom and that will be that much easier to interrogate.

            There are paperclips in the journal.

            Dean is climbing out of the second story office with the journal before they’ve probably left the parking lot.

            He’s gonna have to get Sam a cell phone. He has no idea where the kid is. He told him to work the case.

            Where would he go next if he were working the case? Hard to tell, the guy has never worked a case before. Maybe the widower of the late Constance? He should have checked addresses before he left…

 

#

 

            Sam doesn’t know how he feels about driving the Impala. He drove Tom’s Ford Pilot when he picked up his medication but it was a car nobody paid any attention to. This car just begged for attention.

            He heard a phone ringing from the glove box. Curious, he reached over and opened it. “Hello?”

            “Sam, it’s Dean. Where are you?” Dean’s voice sounded tinny and clipped in his ear.

            “I’m driving to the house where Constance is supposed to be buried,” Sam said. “Um…did they let you out?”

            “They got a call about shots fired. I let myself out when they left.”

            “Oh, good. Um, Whiteford Road is where Walt lives.”

            “How did you know…”

            “Um, I remembered Walt and Roy bragging about how no jail could hold them. I thought fewer people there was better.”

            “Damn, Sammy. You know a fake 911 call is illegal, right?” There was a long pause. “Joke, Sam. You did good.”

            Sam let out the breath he was holding. “How did you get away? Did they have you in a cell?”

            “Left me cuffed in an office full of small wiry things like paper clips that can be used to pick the locks on cuffs. Should have used zip ties. That takes a lot longer to get out of.”

            Sam wondered if he should ask how Dean got out of zipties but decided to hold that thought.

            “Listen, my dad left Jericho,” Dean said. “But he left me a message in his journal, coordinates to where he wants me to go next.”

            Sam tries to close the glove box but he keeps missing it until he glances at it and sees it’s a little farther away than he thought—the front seat on this car is wide—he slams it shut and looks up and there’s someone right there in the road. Sam hits the brakes but there’s no way he can stop the car in time and before he even has the time to try to turn the car…

 

            …he’s past but there was no collision. He drove right through her. He stops the car, shaken. If he had done something to Dean’s car. And holy fuck, not another ghost.   It had to be the ghost. The woman in white.

            He’s dropped the phone. He can hear Dean saying, “Sam? Sam!”

            He has to take a breath. He glances into the rearview mirror to make sure no ones coming up behind him, he should really pull over—

            Constance is sitting in the back seat. She says sadly, “Take me home.”

            He almost starts driving. She’s a free woman and she gave him an order. But she’s dead and he doesn’t have to obey dead people. There’s no one she can tell. So he sits, unable to think of what to do next, just thinking, ‘there’s a ghost in the back seat.’

            The car is idling.

            “Take me home,” she says, more emphatic this time. She is beautiful, with huge dark eyes. She’s ethereal.

            “I can’t,” he says.

            “Take me home,” she begs.

            Stupidly, he holds up his hand and shows her his slave tattoo. He can’t. He can’t because he’s driving a car owned by his master and he’s not allowed.

            Constance’s glare is so human and so expected—failure failure failure—and the doors lock themselves. He tries to unlock the driver’s door and can’t although he really can’t leave her in the car, it’s Dean’s. He brought it here. She’s a ghost. She’ll kill him. He has no idea what to do.

            “Please,” he says.

            Under his foot he feels the gas pedal going down by itself and the black car lurches forward. He grabs the wheel and tries to brake. No no nononono.

            In his rearview mirror he sees Constance flicker. It’s terrifying. It’s so cold in the car that when he exhales he sees his breath. He remembers the ghost in the massage parlor and it was cold, too.

            It is a terrifying few minutes and Sam never stops trying to get control back of the car. Then they turn off the road onto what used to be a driveway and is now only ruts. The car stops in front of an old clapboard house, abandoned. The engine shuts off. The headlights go off. In the darkness, Sam can hear insects. He’s shivering with fear and cold.

            “Let me go, don’t do this,” Sam says.

            Constance flickers, ghostly, in the back seat and says in a voice that is all of sadness, “I can never go home.”

            She brought them here but now, she doesn’t want to be here? Ghost, his brain offers. Stuck repeating and repeating. He looks at the empty place. Her kids died here. He has never expected to have children, too big to be bred but in this moment he imagines all _her_ failures are right here. “You’re scared to go home,” Sam says.

            He looks in back, ready to talk to her but she’s gone.

            The she’s in the passenger seat and he makes a startled noise he can’t stop. She climbs into his lap. She’s a free person. She’s a ghost. He should push her off but he can’t bring himself to do it, some part of his brain screaming that if he pushes a free person he’ll be put down. She shoves hard enough the seat reclines and he reacts instinctively, trying to get out, away.

            “Hold me,” Constance says. “I’m so cold.”

            She is. Everywhere she touches him she leeches the warmth out.

            “You can’t kill me,” Sam says desperately (because reasoning with a ghost, right? Brilliant.) “I’m not unfaithful. I’ve never been!”

            “You’ve always been unfaithful in your head, slave,” she says. “Just hold me.”

            It’s true. He’s always tried to keep a part of himself, the skeptical part that says he isn’t any different than a free person. The part that pretends to be aroused but really isn’t. The calculating part that watches the client and does what ever the client needs and wants but isn’t really part of the act.

            She kisses him and her lips are so cold that his lips burn. He tries to reach for the keys and manages to start the car. She pulls back and for a second before she disappears he sees the dead face behind the human one, not decayed but something else, some essential thing that is the ghost and is so wrong.

            She’s gone. He has to get out. He needs to take care of the car but he’s going to die if he stays in this car. _Think._ He’s been in horrible situations before. _THINK._ Then he feels burning on his chest and can’t help yelling into the night. He yanks his hoodie open and there are five new holes burned through it, his new hoodie. Constance flickers in front of him, on his lap, there and not there, a ghostly weight. He smells mildew. Her fingers fit into the holes in his hoodie and she’s reaching into his chest—

            A gunshot shatters the window.

            Sam jumps and Constance stops and looks. Dean. Dean is walking towards them, gun in his hand, steady and hard and Sam feels a flood of disbelief. Someone here. Someone to save him. Constance stares furious at Dean and then disappears. She reappears and Dean fires again and again and she disappears.

            Think. She’s afraid of something. Sam’s motto is ‘go towards the fear’ and some gut feeling says that to do otherwise is to be a ghost. Walk towards the fear.

            “I’m taking you home,” Sam says and guns the car.

            The big car spits turf from beneath the back wheels and rockets into and through the rotten front of the house. The wood splinters and pieces of clapboard rain down and the car wedges itself.

            Sam can hear Dean clambering through wreckage and then he’s yelling, “Sam! Sam! You okay?”

            Maybe in retrospect Sam will realize this is the moment he gave himself to Dean. No free man had ever done this, had wanted to know, really know, that Sam was _okay_. Not just in the middle of sex and able to keep going okay but really, genuinely okay.

            Sam doesn’t know if he is or not but he says, “I think so.”

            “Can you move?” Dean asks.

            I wrecked your car, Sam thinks. I’m a slave and I wrecked your car.

            “Hey,” Dean says and leans through the window to give Sam a hand.

            Climbing out, Sam see Constance is in the house. She’s picking up a big photograph of her and two kids.

            “You’re good,” Dean says quietly, steadying Sam. “You’re good.”

            Constance sees them and her face goes murderous. There’s furniture, a mildewing armchair, and a big heavy bureau. The bureau slides across the floor as if pushed and slams into them, pinning them against the car. Sam pushes against it—sees Dean doing the same. It doesn’t matter.

            Sam wants to say that Dean shouldn’t have come here. Sam probably is going to get him killed.

            Everything flickers and for a moment the bureau budges before going inert and rooted again.

            Constance is scared.

            There’s the sound of trickling water and it starts running down the staircase like a creek over rocks. Then it’s pouring. This house couldn’t have running water. It’s just not possible. There are two children, a boy and a girl standing on the landing of the stairs, their hair slicked to their heads, their clothes soaked. A boy and a littler girl, maybe seven and five? They are dressed as if they just got home from school; jackets and shoes…

            “You’ve come home to us, Mommy,” they sing-song in unison.

            The look on Constance’s face is heartbreaking. Love and fear. She takes a thoughtless step towards them.

            Then they are behind her. She whirls around and they lunge to embrace her, a feral, frightening thing. For an instance Sam thinks maybe this is what she really wants, but she howls in rage and fear and there’s something unholy, something twisting reality. Sam see the real Constance, the decayed body of Constance, and something of hate, all at the same time and moisture is vaporizing off of the three of them like smoke.

            Then they’re gone.

            Sam is aware of Dean against his side, hip to hip, arm to arm. Dean shoves the bureau away and Sam sags against the car. His chest hurts where the ghost touched him.

            “This is where she drowned her kids,” Dean says. He walks over to look at the place where she vanished.

            “That’s why she could never go home,” he says. “She was too scared to face them.” It sounds like an explanation but really he’s figuring it out as he speaks, brain catching up to intuition.

            “You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.”

            Dean checks the car.

            “You shot her.”

            “Yeah,” Dean says. “Bullets don’t really affect ghosts. But they can startle them. Saved your ass.”

            “Yeah,” Sam says.

            “Ah man, busted headlight. Look at the scratches, you tool.”

            Sam thinks that Dean sounds like he’s sort of joking. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have figured something else out.”

            “Next time you do that. For now I’m taking this out of your hide in laundry duty and car washes. If I can trust you to wash her.”

            Her? Sure, whatever. “Of course,” Sam says.

 

#

 

            The kid was cool under fire. Dean thinks maybe he can actually help with hunting. Until Dean figures out what to do with him or Dad says to sell him. Fucker did scratch the living hell out of Baby.

            He doesn’t like the idea of selling Sam. He tells himself it’s because slavery and an under-regulated, barbaric institution. His Dad is pro-union and anti-slavery because of it. Slaves undercut unions. They’re inefficient. Usually unskilled. Dean’s not a political animal, he knows it. It’s not like he’s writing letters to his congressman about the mistreatment of slaves. (He doesn’t really think he has a congress critter, he’s pretty sure you have to have an address to do that.)

            Still, Sam came through. Thrown into a situation that had already killed eight men, Sam figured out to take Constance home. He’s smart. And steady under fire. And loyal. He could have tried taking off but he did what Dean asked (told him) he worked the case.

            The Impala still runs fine. Just down to one headlight.

            They can’t stay, of course. Dean doesn’t even want to risk going back to the hotel. The guns are in the trunk, they’ll hit more thrift stores and fuck he’s going to have to hustle some cash.

            Sam is tense in his seat for the first hour or so but Dean puts on Metallica and after awhile he can see the adrenaline has drained away and Sam is on the verge of dozing.

            “Why didn’t you run?” Dean asks.

            “You told me to work the case,” Sam says.

            “Yeah. So why didn’t you run?”

            Sam looks a little cornered. “I’m not like that.”

            “You’re a good and loyal slave,” Dean says, not keeping the sarcasm out.

            Sam nods.

            “Look, you barely know me. My dad left you in a motel room for over a week. Don’t bullshit me. Why didn’t you run?”

            “There’s no where to run,” Sam says.

            “Canada,” Dean says.

            “Bounty hunters bring back runaways all the time.”

            “Yeah,” Dean said. “But you might get away and even if you don’t, at least you’d be free for awhile.”

            “They bring runaways to the stock farms and they execute them in front of the kids and breeders,” Sam says. “Make an example.”

            “What? I thought there were laws about killing slaves.”

            Sam nods. “It’s illegal to kill a slave unless they have assaulted a free person, murdered a free person, run away, or committed felony theft of greater than $1,000. But people do it anyway.”

            Dean realizes he doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want to think about what hangs over the head of a slave. What hangs over his head if he isn’t careful. Hell, Sam has seen him commit crimes which means Sam could get him enslaved. If he sells Sam, it’s like leaving a loaded gun out there.

            “Can slaves testify in court?” Dean asks.

            “Yeah,” Sam says. “Kids do, so slaves can. I think it’s kind of the same. People don’t think slaves are reliable.”

            “You could turn me in,” Dean says.

            “For what?” Sam says, looking genuinely startled.

            “Identification fraud. Escaping custody.”

            “Why would I do that?” Sam asks.

            “I dunno. Get a better owner? Make yourself a hero?”

            “I’m not a hero,” Sam says. “If anyone is a hero, it’s you. You’re the one facing stuff like that woman all the time.”

            Dean grins. “Well it’s not like that all the time.” Sam knows about ghosts because he lived in a place with one. Hell, he was owned by a hunter. “So is Walt a hero?”

            There is just the barest of hesitations and then Sam looks out the window and says, “Of course.”

            “Walt is a moron and an asshole,” Dean says. “Constance would have eaten him alive.”

            Sam tries to hide his smile but Dean is amused at the sharp crease of Sam’s dimples.

            “Let’s find a drive through and then a motel. I’ll get you a strawberry milkshake, princess.”

            Sam laughs, an easy laugh.

 

#

 

            The place only has a king but the drop after adrenaline has Sam so tired that Dean thinks he wouldn’t know if they re-routed the freeway through the motel room. He eats his burger and fries and barely has the energy to really enjoy his strawberry milkshake. “I think this is my favorite,” he says. “Better than chocolate.”

            “We’ll get you a tutu and pony.”

            Sam smirks and starts to lie down on the floor.

            “Nah,” Dean says. “You take that side.”

            It’s hard to decipher the look on Sam’s face. Dean ignores it and lays down on his side and flicks on the TV.

            “I’m going to watch a little TV and finish my beer,” Dean says. “Go to sleep.”

            “Yessir,” Sam says but Dean doesn’t correct him. Sam curls up on top of the comforter.

            “Jesus, dude. Get under the blankets.”

            Sam obediently does and in moments is asleep, mouth slightly open, breathing like a child.

            He looks innocent. Dean reminds himself that he’s not.  

 

#

 

            The television is the only light in the room when Dean wakes up with a gasp. He had been dreaming and then in the dream a woman sat down next to him in a bar and started fondling his dick. He was still wearing pants and it was like the zipper was up so no one else could see and it made no sense but it was a dream.

            The feeling builds and builds until it brings him awake, and when he awakes there is a spike of arousal that ripples through him.

            “What?” he says.

            “Shhhhh,” says Sam quietly in his ear. “Let me do this.”

            Dean is so close to coming.

            “Do you want my mouth on your cock, Dean?” Sam says and it almost feels like the dream.

            “Nooooo,” Dean sighs. He should clock Sam. Knock him off. But he’s muddled from sleep and the exhaustion of the hunt and he thought he was okay for the night with the salt at the doors and windows.

            The feeling recedes enough for him to at least try to gather his thoughts but it’s hard to think around Sam’s hand on his dick. Sam gently drags his fingernails across Dean’s balls and it’s electric and Dean gasps.

            “Your cock is so big,” Sam whispers. “It’s so hot in my hand. Your skin is so hot and it’s shining red…”

            Dean feels it building, the orgasm. He’s tired. It feels so good. He should stop Sam. He tenses, chasing it, chasing it.

            When he comes his whole body shakes with it. He curls his toes and everything locks up for a moment. Sam is holding him, not stroking, just letting him come.

            He lays there and shudders with the aftershocks. After a moment Sam gets up. He can feel the cool where Sam was pressed against him and he rolls onto his back. The light is on in the bathroom and the water comes on.

            He was watching the history channel before he fell asleep and now there is something on about super weapons and the third Reich. This is screwed up. Sam just gave him a hand job. He isn’t sure he wants hand jobs from Sam. In fact he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want hand jobs from Sam.

            Sam pads back with a glass of water and a warm wet washcloth.

            Dean grabs the washcloth from him. “I’ll do it.” He cleans himself up. He’s wide awake now. “What was that!”

            Sam blinks. “I’m sorry. I should have used my mouth.” He sounds like a schoolboy realizing he did the assignment wrong. Studious. It’s an ‘I’ll do it right the next time,’ tone.

            “NO!”

            Then Sam is suddenly still.

            “Look! I don’t want that from you!” Dean says.

            “Yessir,” Sam says. “I’m sorry sir.”

            “Is that what you did for Walt?” Dean snaps.

            “No sir! I mean, I blew Walt but only when he ordered me.”

            There is some distinction here. Sam only blew Walt when ordered but he gave Dean a hand job without being asked. “So that was, what, a gift?”

            Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, his bangs hanging down, staring at his hands. “I’m sorry, sir.”

            “Don’t fucking call me ‘sir’! And don’t so that! I don’t want to have sex with you!”

            “Yes, um, yes, Dean.”

            “Fuck.” Dean flops back on the bed.

            On the television, they drone on about a giant gun that would shoot shells that weighed seven tons. Dean doesn’t really want to hear about shooting guns at the moment so he fumbles with the remote and turns off the television. The only light is the light from the bathroom. He has a flash of the feeling of Sam’s hand on him.

            “Do you want to change sides?” Sam asks quietly.

            “What?” Dean is so pissed right now.

            “There’s a wet spot. It’s my fault.”

            “Shut up, turn off the light and come back to bed. And don’t touch me.”

            “Yessir—Dean.”

            Dean listens as Sam does what he’s told and climbs into bed.

 

#

 

            In the morning they don’t talk about it. Dean takes them to a drive through and gets breakfast. Sam doesn’t like coffee, Dean can tell, but Sam won’t say anything and Dean is happy to let him suffer through it.

            Apparently, when they were dealing with Constance, they were out of cell phone range because Dean sees only then that he has a message from John.

            _“Dean, check the journal. Take care of Sam.”_

            Nothing more.

 

# # #

**Author's Note:**

> In this world, massa carnis, 'insensible flesh' is a legal designation for slaves.


End file.
